Rolling in Poo

 Our Lizzy; she's a dear, sweet dog, a mini bernedoodle in breed. We love her, that's for sure. Lizzy entertains us with her antics of play. She's our sour-patch dog. Sweet, sassy, stubborn, and so full of fun and love. She's a uniter. When Brad and I embrace in a warm hug, Lizzy works her way between us, standing on her hind legs and enjoys the hug also. She and I have a way of bringing a sense of physical calm to one another, though. I love her for that, especially. However; she is, in fact, a dog. 

It was that time of day; the time of day where Lizzy may need to have a nice poo. Brad and I decided that we would also treat her to a nice opportunity for a free run through the unoccupied cemetery space near our home. With her "business" taken care of and cleaned up, we all headed for that free space. We released Lizzy, chucked a ball with a specially designed ball chucker, and watched her run with glee and abandon. The first throw was chased down, retrieved, returned, and then went the second toss. Distraction! An aroma Lizzy could not resist met her keen nose, and then the rolling began. Oh, how she rolled! Lizzy rolled with luxurious abandon in the fresh and unclaimed poo of another dog. 

We stood in horror! Oh, the horror, the horror! We came unfrozen from our initial shock and began hollering, "Lizzy, no! Lizzy, stop!" 

"Nope. No can do," was her clear reply as she continued her joyous rolling and scraping and tucking her body into that excrement. 

Once we reached her, poor Brad had to secure her leash, meaning his hands were right in the poo of another dog. Your own dog's poo is bad enough, but another dog? Ugh. It's like changing your own baby's diaper in comparison with changing another baby's diaper. There's something foreign and especially unappreciated, though you know you have to do what needs to be done.

I lamented, "And, I just bathed her a few days ago!"

We all walked home. Lizzy, in delight with her newly dressed up scent and us with plans for how we would address the issue once we got home. The plan was, I would go in and prepare the bathroom for her bath while Brad kept her contained outside. When I was ready, he would carry her in and place her in the tub for me. 

It all went according to plan, but the bathing. Oh, the bathing. If you've ever bathed an animal before, you know what happens when they get wet. It's the inevitable shaking away of water from their ears and body. When Lizzy shook, little particles of poo flung about, "Oh, Lizzy! Nooo! Oh dear. Oh, my! And, just plain gross!" 

Of course when I finished bathing Lizzy, I promptly showered as well. What a glorious mess she had made for herself. 

Like good dog parents, though, we did not hit or yell at her or offer harsh words of condemnation. We love her. We know her condition of being a dog. We understand that she behaves as a dog, simply because it's in her DNA. It's what and who she is. 

How I wish I had had this outlook when I was a young mother, but that's just it. I was young and inexperienced as a mother. I didn't fully understand the simplicity of youth and their childish thinking, or lack thereof. Thankfully, with age and experience, wisdom is gained, and now I sit here wondering about all of this simply from Lizzy's rolling in poo.

I think of how God must view me, us, we humans. How often do I/we go off rolling in the proverbial poo? At this age, I don't wander on too many tangents, but I have in the past. I can just imagine God watching and thinking, "Well, there she goes again. She doesn't know fully what excrement she's getting herself into, but I love her. She's mine, and I know it's simply in her DNA of being human that allows her to get herself into messes."

I can hear Him say as He picks me up and helps me brush the debris from myself, "It's okay, Kari, I've got you. You are mine. I love you, and I will heal your wounds and help guide you back to your chosen path with Me."

Like Lizzy, I rejoice and run circles of celebration around my little world, happy to still be loved and valued and protected. 

"The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold." Psalm 18:2 (NIV)

And so, I'm thankful. Thankful for a Lord who loves me, keeps me, and doesn't turn His back on me. I'm thankful for silly moments like Lizzy rolling in poo to remind me of the simple things of life. 

Do We Have Too Much Information?

 Recently, I've been wondering if there is such a thing as too much information. Is it possible to suffer from information overload? I bet if I were to Google this question, I'd get multiple hits regarding the impact of too much information. Admittedly, I very often avoid the news and commentaries simply because I find it all overwhelming.

You see, I grew up as a young girl with newspapers, the evening news with Walter Cronkite, magazines, and good old fashioned word of mouth information. Those were the days of telephone calls, and even party lines. 

I learned in school all about our technological advances moving us from the telegraph system to the use of telephones. First the telephones were sparse, not everyone could afford to have the service. This is where the pay phone came into play. People could pay a dime, and later a quarter to call someone. I even remember having to stand in line waiting to use a pay phone. If people were making long distance calls, they would stand with a stack of coins poised and ready to add them when the operator cautioned that the call demanded more money.

My point is, communication came to us slowly, sparsely, and not always with easy access. This meant that talking on the phone was limited, and if you wanted news, you read the paper or watched the evening news. 

How markedly different things are today. Now, we are bombarded with information. It comes across our phones and computers that are in our homes, schools, place of business, and vehicles. People even wear communication/information-giving devices on their wrists, on their heads, or in their ears. 

News pops up, even if I'm not seeking it. I open my computer and I'm faced with a news banner tempting me to select the link to read the full story, which includes links to more stories. I open my e-mail, and there it is, more news. I drive in my car and the computer speaks up and warns of obstacles or police that are in my path.

Then add the issue of deciding what is true and what is rumor or simply invented by people attempting to sway the viewing or listening audience in a certain direction of thought. It's no wonder that I often feel the need to simply turn off my phone and computer and walk away. My mind can, at times, feel as though it's circling endlessly with all the information. 

I have learned to be selective, because all this information has a way of becoming quite literally addictive.  I find that I have to force myself to resist opening social media platforms more than once a day, check e-mail every other day, and limit my own screen time. 

And so, I Googled (because that is a verb now), "do we have too much information". I got more hits on this than I anticipated. It seems you can even get too much information on receiving too much information. It also turns out there is a word for this information overload, "infotoxication - leading to cognitive strain, stress and anxiety, reduced productivity, and distraction" (A.I. via Google -  if we can believe it). 

Yes. I have experienced all of these symptoms. 

With all of this in mind, I choose to watch news selectively and with time limits, set my phone down and go about my day, and take care not to watch too much programming. 

My aging brain is befuddled enough. 

Stumbling Stone

I was walking along in the woods of a nearby park. The path was of gravel, and I had been watching my steps with care, but I saw in the distance a sign of historical information. I wanted to go over and read it. I took my eyes off the path before me and looked towards the sign eager to see what it said. In just a very brief moment, like maybe one step taken with my eyes off the path ahead of me I stumbled on a larger stone, rolled my ankle, and fell to the ground. The sting of pain ran up my leg, but having experienced previous injuries like this, I knew I would be okay.

I sat for a short moment, rubbed the ankle just enough to help my body understand that it was okay and then got up and walked to a nearby picnic table and sat down. There, I moved my ankle about ridding it of the initial sting of pain. I then went on over to the sign, read the information, and then turned to make my way back to my campsite. 

On my way, I passed the stone that had tripped me up. With second thoughts of that stone, I turned back and bent to pick it up. I don't know why. It just seemed somehow to be a little message for me. I carried my stumbling stone back to the camper and set it at my writing table. It's a very plain stone. It has no unique markings or color. It's actually quite drab. I know, because I'm very prone to picking up attractive stones and taking them home to place around my gardens. I'm a rock collector. 

The stone has many scrape and scuff marks across its surface as if I was not the first person to trip over it. I wonder about its history and its story. How many times has it been run over by vehicles? How many other wanderers have tripped over it? How many animals have sniffed at it and inspected it? How many times have ants, spiders, or other insects traveled over or hidden under it? Perhaps, children have even picked it up and tossed it around, only to be reprimanded by parents to not throw stones. 

And then, I thought about how that stone could easily represent the stumbling stones of life. Those things that take my eyes off my course with God, how others experience the same distractions as me. I'm human. It's human nature to veer off course and go exploring my own paths. Paths that have me walking away from, or at least, not beside God. I go in pursuit of my own interests and try to satisfy my own will, rather than that of God's will for my life. 

I'm not the first, nor am I the last who experiences this. There is a certain level of comfort in reading about those Israelites of the Old Testament. Their cycles of following God and falling away, and then returning to their Lord gives me hope. Hope and gladness that while, I may have periods in life where I wander off course, God always has a way of drawing me back to Him. I return to seek His will for my life, once again. 

This cycle occurs because I take my eyes off the path God has set before me. And, let's face it, sometimes I don't quite understand the direction life is going so I make choices without praying first. I trip, fall, scrape the knees of my spirit and gradually become worn down with my own efforts to correct my stance. My efforts; they are less than weak and feeble. I end up spending much of my time sitting and rubbing at wounds that don't fully heal. 

Through it all, though, God continues to extend His hand of mercy. He loves me enough to allow me to go my own way and do my own thing. He waits patiently for my return. I have to come to the end of myself. I have to willingly return to the Lord, seek His will once again, and turn my eyes, again, to the path God has set before me. I have to ask, "God, what do You want?" And then, I have to listen. Listen and walk and live each day with God in the lead. 

And so, we walk; the Lord and I, side by side. We walk.

Renovation

 Recently, I was reading from a devotional, and within the reading was the mention of home renovations. That struck a cord in me, a deeper thought reaching beyond the home built of brick and mortar. I thought of my life and how, like our home that we renovated, my heart and life also experienced a renovation when I accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior. 

Salvation was an early renovation, the first step of a work in progress. You see, we renovated our house. We cleaned, tore some parts out, rebuilt some parts, added fresh electrical wires and outlets, tore up old carpet that had dry rotted, and hired out a company to lay new carpet. We sanded down old and tired woodwork, painted walls in bright and soothing colors, and installed new and updated appliances and counter tops. Old light fixtures were removed, and new light fixtures were installed.  Tired windows were replaced with windows that could be opened to welcome the fresh air and tipped out so that they could be washed easily. Those clean windows allow the sunlight to stream into our home, casting beautiful natural light throughout. 

We worked around the house on the outside as well. Some plants that had overgrown were either removed or simply trimmed into shape, flowerbeds were weeded, mulch and gravel spread in place. An herb garden was planted, providing savory flavors to our meals. 

The renovations demanded of us a lot of time, dedication, and work. When it was finished, we constantly walked into our fresh home and smiled with satisfaction and contentment in the work we had accomplished. We often raised our hands in high five salutes. One would think that now we could simply sit back and enjoy the home. We were finished. The renovations we wanted to address were completed. However, that is not the case.

The home is restored. It certainly has a welcoming feel about it, but because we did the work, I can see the imperfections. The walls call for periodic washing down to remove dust that prevents the light from bouncing back into the space. The windows need cleaning so that we can see through them clearly. There are the occasional times where the paint needs to be touched up from people banging items into them or repeatedly brushing past the edges of a corner. Many hands with food particles or dirt leave marks that need cleaned. And even the things that were bought new, need repairing or replacing, because they are not meant to last forever. Certainly, there is a constant demand for continual upkeep on the home we so lovingly renovated. 

And, I think of my heart and spirit. I think of how I am so very much like our renovated home. I invited Jesus into my heart. He bought me; after all, He paid the debt of my sins. Renovations of my life began. It is an ever-continuing process. At the beginning, much was accomplished very quickly. My focus and attention changed from that of the temporal to the eternal. With God, I worked to clean up my thoughts, my desires, my intentions, and my relationships. 

Like our freshly renovated home though, this old house I call my mind, body and soul needs on-going attention and care. Oh, how I so often forget this! I'm prone to becoming dusty and musty. My paint gets scuffed and marred from the toil of everyday life. I forget to wash my windows regularly, and so I don't see things clearly. The wiring of my mind gets crossed and sometimes the outlets don't function properly. My thoughts, actions, or inaction haunt my mind, and I'm tricked into believing I'm no longer suited for habitation. 

And so, I come to fully understand that just like our home, I must be under constant maintenance if I am to hold my value; if I'm to be of use to my family and community. I'm still bought and paid for; I still belong to Jesus. However, my usefulness diminishes with my dilapidation. I must return to The Source of renewal and rejuvenation. 

I wash down the walls of my mind with the Word of God. The dust and cobwebs are swept away through worship and the Holy Spirit. Hope returns on the wings of prayer. I am again willing to go where Jesus leads. 

Thus, the doors of my heart open, and I welcome the work and fellowship that comes my way. 

Hope; a poem

 Hope is a rushing river,

    surging in and ebbing out;

meandering banks through flood and drought,

    covering stones of fear and doubt.

Hope is a brilliant sunlight,

    a magnificent work of art;

 Though storms may loom, and she depart

    with a gentle breeze, hope returns to lift the heart.

Hope is a fluttering butterfly,

    where even in times of loss and fearful fright,

The most delicate of wings take flight;

    and bring the wandering, seeking soul aright.

Elevator

 The elevator ascends, all is well;

    all are welcome.

The elevator descends. Bottom falling out - 

    stuck on floor 13;

Even though there is no 13th floor.

Warning!

Closed for repairs.

Repairs complete; elevator open.

Going up?

Renovation

 It's been quite a whirlwind the past two weeks. I've been working on renovating our basement, and yes, my husband and I do our own work. It's highly rare for us to hire work out, so this means I roll up my shirt sleeves and bust out the buckets, washcloths, ladders, various tools for dismantling and reassembling objects, and don't forget the paint and brushes and drop cloths and tape and .....

I'm a "begin with the end in mind" sort of gal. I envision the end product, and then I begin working through the process deciding what needs to happen in which logical order. There is a clear vision in my mind, but seeing the results as we progress is very rewarding. 

We are now to the point where hubby has several jobs to do with the finishing touches. It's things like cutting and mounting trim, plumbing, and caulk. While he works on this, I'm laundering new bedding and adding decor. 

Watching the transformation come to fruition is like icing on the cake. It's so fun to see my vision become a reality. 

So, as I sit here writing this, I'm reminded of how these processes reflect on life. I consider the way I envisioned my family when we were all young. The years of labor and toil, laughter and tears, plans and surprises; and now, I see all of our work in beautiful results. Adult children raising their own children, and doing a wonderful job of that. Our grandchildren are growing and thriving. 

Just as our basement renovation will continue to need maintenance and care, so do our families, our lives, our spirits. We are never truly finished with projects whether they be home remodeling or building families. It's all cyclical. We just have to decide how much time and energy we are willing to invest.